by Alyssa Day
Fiona traded a glance with Hopkins and then they both looked at Christophe. She made a “move it along” gesture.
“What, you expect us to mourn for him? Where and when do you want to meet? The boy had better be safe and intact, or you will answer to me.” Christophe never raised his voice. He didn’t have to. Power roared through his body and enhanced his words until they thundered through the air and into the phone.
“Interesting trick,” the Fae said. “Your voice alone just killed my favorite rosebush. I’ll have to take that out of someone’s flesh, of course, but it was interesting. I wonder how much of that raw, rough power I have caused.”
Christophe stared at the phone, but knew better than to allow the Fae to draw him into a useless argument.
“When and where?” Fiona shouted at the phone, at the Fae. “Just tell us when and where, damn you.”
“The dulcet tones of my future wife. Yes, my dearest one, I know you are impatient to join with me and bear my sons. Tonight, at midnight. A bit clichéd, but for a reason. The hour holds sacred power here in the Summer Lands.”
Fiona fell back against the desk, her mouth opening and closing, but no sound came out. Christophe took over, forcing himself to ignore the bit about “future wife”—for now.
“How do we get there?”
“Come to Fairsby Manor, of course,” the Fae who was and was not Fairsby replied. “I’ll be there to meet you. Midnight and not a minute sooner, mind, and only the two of you. Oh, and Fiona? I’ll gladly trade your brother’s freedom for that Atlantean’s head on a plate.”
The click as he hung up on them echoed in the space between the three of them.
Hopkins nodded once, decisively. “Now we go plan how to kick his arse.”
“Yes,” Fiona said. “Now.”
* * *
An hour later
They’d cleaned up and changed from the explosion’s after-math, and now all Fiona wanted to do was take off for Lord Fairsby’s family home and find her brother.
“Believe me. I’d be all for it if it had a chance in the nine hells of working, but it doesn’t,” Christophe said. “The entry to the Summer Lands moves around, and never at the request of non-Fae. It’s like the portal to Atlantis. It has a mind of its own. If we try to storm the place early, na Feransel will make sure we never find your brother.”
A shimmering glow was their only warning before the portal he’d just mentioned opened right before their eyes. He pulled Fiona behind him and drew his daggers, but then shoved them back in their sheaths, sighing with relief, as Brennan, Bastien, and Justice walked through, one by one.
“We hear you could use some help,” Justice said, his long blue hair tied back in his customary braid and the hilt of his sword rising above his shoulder. He bowed to Fiona. “My lady.”
“You all came? To help me?” Christophe couldn’t quite believe it. He’d spent years shutting them all out. But then he realized what the real mission must be. “Oh, of course. The Siren.”
“No, my friend,” Bastien said, his voice rumbling out of the middle of his seven-foot-tall frame. “We knew you could retrieve the Siren on your own. We mostly wanted to see this woman who has finally taught you some manners, according to Princess Riley.”
He, too, bowed to Fiona.
She inclined her head. “Welcome to Campbell Manor. This is my dear friend, Hopkins. The plans have changed. We need to storm the Summer Lands to fight an Unseelie Court prince who has kidnapped my brother, probably has your Siren, wants to make me his brood mare, and claims to have unfinished business with Christophe. Got it?”
A huge smile spread on Brennan’s face, which still seemed wrong, somehow. The warrior had spent more than two thousands of years with no emotion at all, thanks to a really nasty curse Poseidon had thrown at him. Now that he had regained his emotions and fallen in love, he often tried out really terrible jokes on the rest of them.
“Christophe,” Brennan said, still smiling. “I really, really like this woman.”
“As do we all,” Hopkins said dryly, shaking hands with each of them. “Tea?”
“Guinness?” Bastien asked, hope shining on his face.
“You need a clear head,” Fiona said, looking way, way up at him. Then she sighed. “I’m guessing you can metabolize a pint before midnight.”
Bastien bowed again. “Atlantean metabolism, my lady. We can only very rarely become even the slightest bit drunk. It takes great effort.”
“Or great stupidity,” Justice added. All three of them looked at Christophe.
“Nice. With friends like you . . .”
“And the room floods with testosterone,” Hopkins observed. “This way, gentlemen? I believe Lady Fiona and Christophe have some issues to discuss.”
He looked back at them before following the Atlanteans out. “I have more help coming. The stockpile.”
Fiona nodded, her face brightening. “Of course. Hopkins, you’re brilliant.”
He smiled modestly. “Just doing my job.”
Christophe looked back and forth between the two of them. “What stockpile?”
“We’ve guns that shoot lovely iron pellets. We’ve swords with iron blades. All of the things that the Fae hate, in other words.” She smiled fiercely, and suddenly he almost felt sorry for the Fae. “We’re going to hurt him for daring to take my brother. We’re going to make him pay.”
Chapter 36
“If he’s hurt, I’ve done it. I had to play ninja and my actions had repercussions. If they hurt Declan, or worse, it’s just the same, you see?” She sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, aching with the need to cry, but her burning eyes were dry as death.
“You think you’re like your grandfather?” Christophe shook his head. “Never, sweetheart. This is not your fault. We’ve been through this. If you need to blame somebody, blame me.” He tried to hold her, but she pushed him away.
“No. He’s mine. If he’s in trouble, I’m the one. I’m just as bad as my grandfather, playing at ninja and theft, only to have the hurt fall on the innocent. My grandfather got my father killed. Now I . . . now I . . .”
She curled over into a ball, willing herself not to vomit. Sick and weak and shaky, she was no good to Declan.
Christophe paced back and forth, back and forth. “You don’t even have to ask, you know. Of course I’ll do it.”
She could feel his sincerity and his love lighting up the connection between them like a sun gone supernova, and she wanted to roll around in the heat and light, but she forced the door in her heart to close. It hurt too much, otherwise.
“I’ll trade myself for Declan,” Christophe said, spelling it out. “You don’t have to ask. My head will make that plate look good.”
His feeble attempt at humor died in the air between them, but she appreciated the effort. It was far more than she could do.
Flashes of memory of Declan kept shooting through her mind. Him as a baby, as a toddler who followed her everywhere, calling for his “Fee Fee.” She’d hated that; thought it made her sound like a French poodle. Fifi Campbell.
School days, protecting him from the bullies who thought an orphaned pair might be fair game. They’d learned otherwise quickly enough.
“Oh, Dec,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’m coming for you. Your Fee Fee is coming.”
Christophe lifted her clear off the chair and then sat down with her in his lap and simply held her while she finally cried. By the time the rest of the Atlanteans returned, she’d cleaned away any trace of tears and was ready to plan.
When they entered the room, Christophe stood and introduced them to her. “Lady Fiona Campbell, this is Lord Justice. He’s okay in spite of the hair.”
Justice faked a swat at Christophe’s head and Christophe ducked and grinned. Fiona caught a flash of true fondness from Christophe’s emotions and was glad for him.
“Just Fiona, please,” she said, shaking hands.
“And simply Justice, for us,” he said, odd
ly referring to himself in the plural. He was tall, dark, and gorgeous, like they all were, but with a streak of wildness in his eyes. Probably why his hair was in a braid that fell to his hips and he wore such a huge sword.
“Is there iron in that sword?” She knew she was being abrupt, but she didn’t have time to waste on courtesies when Declan’s life hung in the balance.
“No iron, but it has its own unique properties,” he said. “It will send the Fae running.”
“Brennan is the one with the sense of humor and the very bad jokes,” Christophe said, and the one who’d told Christophe he really liked her nodded.
“Bastien is the giant. Also a damn fine cook.”
Bastien inclined his head. “My pleasure, Lady Fiona.”
“Now what?” She looked around at each of them in turn. “You’ve faced them before, I have not, so I repeat, now what?”
Sean walked into the room rolling a cart. “I think I have an idea.”
He opened the top of the cart and Fiona saw every type of iron weapon she could possibly have hoped for, all stacked and shining like a murderer’s dream.
“Have you tried to reach Denal on the mental pathway?” Justice asked Christophe. “Do you want any of us to try?”
Christophe shrugged. “If you can, please do. Maybe you’ll have better luck. I have had no success at all. Wherever he is, he either can’t hear me, or he doesn’t want to answer.”
He refused to think of the third possibility.
Hopkins walked in and Fiona almost fell over. He wasn’t wearing his suit, for perhaps the first time in her life. Instead, he was dressed all in black and he looked tough and deadly. He calmly began fastening a shoulder holster to himself.
Justice wandered over and picked up an iron sword and checked its balance. “This one is good,” he told Hopkins.
“We’re taking the butler?” Bastien asked. “I mean you no offense, sir, but—”
“I prefer these,” Hopkins interrupted Bastien, but he was answering Justice. He chose an assortment of guns, loaded them, and holstered them in various places around his person, all in record time. “Not much for swords, but I caused some trouble with guns, back in the day.” He met Fiona’s gaze. “I plan to do so again tonight.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Hopkins. You’ve always been there for us. I can’t imagine surviving tonight without you.”
“You don’t understand, Fiona,” Christophe said. “The Fae said only the two of us. The Summer Lands have a magical entrance, similar to the Atlantean portal. It will only admit the two of us, and it won’t let anyone at all enter carrying weapons.” He forced the words out. “None of this does us any good. Once we’re in there, we’re on our own.”
Chapter 37
Fairsby Manor, midnight
Christophe tightened his grip on Fiona’s hand and knocked on the enormous wooden door. Oak, he thought. Beautiful carving in all of the many panels. Funny how the Unseelie Fae always surrounded themselves with beauty, when they were so ugly on the inside, where it counted.
A tiny shiver passed through Fiona, but she hid any nerves behind her “lady of the manor” serenity. “Just coming to call,” she said. “I’ve been here before.”
“That’s it. You can do this.”
“Before I knew my best friend was a Fae princess and kidnapper,” she continued relentlessly. “Before some crazy elf stole my brother and wanted to hire out my uterus.”
Christophe grimaced. “I don’t think he has hiring in mind. What were you talking to Justice about, by the way?”
She shrugged her shoulders under her long, heavy coat. “Nothing much. And now? I’m going to kick some elf ass,” she said, smiling at the door.
“We’re going to kick some elf butt, Partner.”
She reached up to kiss him and he just barely had time to hope it wasn’t the last time he ever kissed her, and then the door opened. His jaw dropped open in shock.
“Lucinda?” Fiona leapt inside and helped support the bloody and battered shifter. “Who did this to you?”
Christophe thought, Trap, but it was too late, far too late, and so he followed Fiona inside and watched the door slam shut behind them.
Lucinda fell to the ground heavily. She was bleeding from so many different places that it was a wonder she was still alive.
“Why don’t you shift and start healing yourself?” He crouched down next to her. “We’ll stand guard.”
She shook her head; a tiny movement, but even that caused her pain. “No, you don’t understand. He has the Siren. He can keep us from shifting. Right now he’s only playing with it and there are hundreds of us near death. If you teach him how to access its full power, we’re all finished.”
“No worries there,” he told her. “There’s not a chance in the nine hells I’ll help him with anything.”
The sound of boot heels ringing on marble sounded in the foyer, though there was no one there, until suddenly Gideon na Feransel stood there watching them. “Such a disappointment. Here I’d hoped it would be easy.”
The Fae slowly and carefully rolled up the sleeves on his tailored shirt. “I think I need a little snack for this demonstration.”
As if on command, three shifters dragged a fourth out of a doorway behind the Fae and dropped their struggling captive in front of him. The shifters, all but the captive, were enthralled. The one on the floor looked up at them, and it took Christophe a minute to recognize Evan, Lucinda’s mate, in the mass of torn and tattered flesh that was all that was left of his face.
“What did you do to them?” Fiona demanded. “Gideon, how could you?”
“It’s not the Gideon you think you know,” Christophe reminded her. “He was an illusion.”
“Yes, he was an illusion,” the Fae repeated, mocking them. “But this isn’t.”
He yanked Evan up off the floor with one hand and brutally jerked the shifter’s head up at a painful angle. Then he leaned forward until their faces were almost touching and he . . . inhaled.
That was all. He inhaled. Nothing more, and yet Evan began to scream and fight even harder than he had before, to get away. Christophe pulled his daggers, but the Fae pointed a single finger at Fiona, and the shifters attacked. The three were pure, single-minded, deadly determination in their enthralled state, and it took everything Christophe had to fight them off. By the time he’d killed the third, Gideon na Feransel was dropping the husk of Evan’s drained body on the floor.
That single action caught at something in Christophe’s mind and sliced away all of his years of denial in a single vicious swipe, and the memory played in full, living color.
His mother, her drained body falling to the floor. His father, only a dried-out husk remaining, thudding to the floor.
The same man the cause of all of it.
The same Unseelie Fae.
He turned blind eyes to Fiona, and she caught his arm. “What is it? What’s wrong? What did he do to you?”
“He finally caught on, Lady Fiona,” the Fae said mockingly. “That’s all. He finally remembered that I’m the one who killed his parents.”
* * *
Fiona knelt on the ground, Lucinda dying in her lap, and watched the man she loved shrivel away as if the Fae had drained him instead of Evan. The agonizing memories were too much; she could feel them screaming through his brain, and she wondered how either one of them would survive it.
“That’s it. Fall apart, Atlantean. I need you a bit more malleable,” Gideon said. “Be a good boy and fall asleep again, like you did when you were a sniveling brat all those years ago.” He laughed. “Your parents did taste so delicious. Enough life force to last me for almost a year. You Atlanteans are special. It was your fault, of course.” He stalked closer, but Christophe just stood there, shuddering. “Your fault,” the Fae repeated. “If you hadn’t run away that day; if they hadn’t wasted the time to try to find you, why, they might have escaped. You murdered your own parents, you pathetic, whining brat.”
&nb
sp; His eyes shone with a dark and evil glee, and Fiona’s head nearly split with the weight of guilt and pain he was piling on Christophe with his lies and manipulation.
“No!” she screamed in Christophe’s face. “It wasn’t your fault. Don’t let him do this to you, or he wins.”
Christophe slowly raised his ravaged face to meet her gaze, and then, just as slowly, he nodded and spoke inside her mind.
He will never win while you are mine to protect, mi amara.
She could feel the Herculean effort it took as Christophe forcibly pushed his pain and terror aside and locked it into the back of his mind in a box of his own, to deal with later.
Together. We’ll deal with it together, later, she promised him, sending the thought from her mind to his with all of her focus.
But Christophe fell on the ground and huddled in a ball, rocking back and forth, and only the calming feel of his thoughts kept her from believing that he had given up entirely. Hopefully, he had fooled the Fae.
“It’s too late, Fiona,” the Fae said, all false pity and concern. “He’s no good to you. Luckily you have my offer of marriage, even though you’re soiled now. All I need is to lock you in a room for at least half a year, to prove to any naysayers that none of his fucks bore fruit in your delicious body.”
But then na Feransel made his first mistake. He took his eyes off Christophe, just for an instant, so he could leer at Fiona.
An instant was long enough.
Christophe leapt to his feet and shot an energy bolt through the air at the Fae. Power thundered through the room and smashed into Gideon, knocking him through the air and into the wall.
But a heartbeat later, Gideon was back on his feet and hurling his own power at Christophe. Back and forth, first one had the advantage and then the other—it was a towering magical battle between two masters, and all Fiona could do was drag Lucinda over to the wall and hope they didn’t get caught in the cross fire.
It lasted forever, or it ended in mere minutes, she couldn’t tell, but suddenly the door behind Gideon opened again and a shimmer of hot green light poured from it.